


Monster

by Narcissisticpeacock



Series: Closure [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angela is loyal to Fareeha, Angst, F/F, Past Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 05:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14867595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narcissisticpeacock/pseuds/Narcissisticpeacock
Summary: Moira can't help it that she hasn't moved on.





	Monster

**Author's Note:**

> So my girlfriend introduced me to this ship and now... I've written it. Typically when we play, it's me as Moira and her as Mercy. Unless I'm a tank. Because no one else is ever a tank. why is that.

Moira hears the tell tale sound of jets and dodges into a building. This far separated from her team, she stands no chance if she’s spotted alone. She’ll have to sneak back to her side of things if she wants to make it out of here.

She vanishes for a moment and reappears another ten feet away, farther behind cover. She has a long way to go.

But then she hears a noise. A soft cry of pain, muffled, as if the being who made it is trying to be quiet.

Moira slows her steps and does her best to make her footfalls soft. She doubts the sound came from someone on her side. It was distinctly feminine, so Reaper and Doomfist are ruled out. Widowmaker, however, is a possibility, but she keeps to the rooftops and away from the fray. Sombra is quick and rarely needs Moira’s help, as she’s handy with what’s around her.

No, this must be an enemy, at most. At least, perhaps a civilian.

Perhaps she’ll stumble upon a wounded enemy, some agent of Overwatch or other. Maybe it’s Oxton, and she can finally finish the foolish girl off. There’d be many benefits to that. The organization would lose their poster girl. It could be devastating blow that would hurt their leaders and the ape that did much of their scientific research. It would also ensure Widowmaker’s reprogramming would stay locked firmly in place. Moira has yet to figure out a way to keep what Oxton triggers in the sniper ineffective.

It’s not, unfortunately, the young Amari. Moira is all too aware that Pharah is outside the very building she’s hiding in. But it could, she supposes, be the older Amari. It’d been a long time since Moira had seen the woman.

Moira doesn’t have time to think through the other possibilities. She rounds a corner and her eyes fall on who she had heard.

She freezes.

Angela Ziegler, otherwise known as Mercy, is leaning heavily against a table. She’s struggling to open a healthpack. There’s an obvious, very nearly gaping wound in her side, where her armor is cracked and broken. Moira doesn’t know who, or what, made it. Whatever did it, she wants it dead. The wound leaks blood more than it should, practically flowing down Angela’s side.

“Angela,” she speaks in a soft, even voice.

The good doctor jumps and has her pistol in her hand within seconds. She scowls when she sees Moira and keeps her gun up. “Moira,” comes a hissed response.

Moira hates how much it hurts.

She can remember, fondly, the times her name had been said with warmth. With care. She yearns for the days where they worked together. Back then they had pushed the limits of science and overcome so much. While she still finds fulfilment in her experiments now, she can’t help but wonder how much better they’d feel with Angela at her side again. Their work, together, led to the ability to heal as they do.

Something they can do for others but not themselves.

“Calm yourself,” Moira speaks into the tension. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The gun isn’t lowered.

Despite this, Moira moves closer. She  _ won’t  _ hurt Angela. She never could. This is no trick, no careful hidden subterfuge. She hates it, but she wants to help. If Talon knew, she’d face “disciplinary action”. As if she wasn’t the one who designed the machines they use.

“Why are you here?” Angela’s voice is strained. Like an injured animal backed into a corner, she’s ready to strike, to fight until her dying breath. This, from a woman who calls herself a pacifist.

Moira tries not to betray any emotion. There was a time her presence would put Angela at ease, provide some modicum of peace and comfort. It’s long gone now.

“The same reason you’re here, I assume.”

She’s even closer now, and yet Angela has yet to shoot. Her hand shakes on the gun, likely torn between what she should do and the memories of what she had wanted to do.

Moira puts faith in that as she pushes the gun away. “There was a time when you wouldn’t touch one of those,” she comments softly.

“That time died with your morals,” Angela spits. She keeps the gun in her hand, but it’s useless as her legs collapse under her.

Moira catches her, lowers her down to the ground.

Even then, Angela fights it. She cringes at the touch, pushes one of Moira’s hands away, but there’s no real strength behind it.

“You’re losing blood,” Moira comments. Even now, it’s on her hands from catching her and pooling on the floor.

Moira stays kneeled and reaches for the wound.

Before she can examine it, Angela pushes her hands away again. “Don’t… Don’t touch me.”

Fear. There’s fear in Angela’s eyes and on her face. It hurts Moira more than the gun that had been pointed her way, more than anything else.

She looks at her hands. Nails turned to wicked claws, gold nestled in the palm of one hand, purple in the other… Dark veins up the back of her hands and under her sleeves, evidence of the life she steals and grants anew to those who truly deserve it. All of this, covered in Angela's blood.

Moira realizes she could end it here. All she has to do is open one hand, will the life force from Angela’s body and to her own. It would take seconds, all of which would be agony.

Not only for Angela.

So she closes her right hand and reaches out again, but only with her left hand. She meets Angela’s eyes. “This will heal you,” she promises.

The fear in Angela’s eyes turns to confusion, but Moira only looks for a moment. She turns her focus on the wound and wills life back into it, wills the flesh to close and the blood to replenish. Gold leaves her palm to be absorbed by the hungry flesh on Angela’s side.

She wonders if Angela realizes this is the life force of her friends, of the small band of Overwatch men and women who are fighting just out of earshot. Moira had been fighting too, not long ago. She’d taken the health of Tracer, of Soldier, and McCree, and even of Pharah. All of it was being put to better use, given to the woman that kept them alive.

The woman Moira had found alone and near death.

“Near death and none of them even care,” Moira hisses. “They leave you here by yourself.” She’s angry, and rightfully so. In the past, she had stayed close to Angela, kept her healthy and breathing.

Angela grows angry as well. “You think I let them know? That I’d let any of them think I might not make it? I keep them alive, Moira. I can take care of myself.”

“Can you now?” Moira asks in a low voice. She’s watching the flesh begin to knit back together, to close the hole in itself.

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten what it’s like to care about people, but I haven’t. I won’t let them worry.”

“They drain more life from you than will ever be worth it.”

“They would give their lives for me,” Angela spits.

Moira lets her hand linger, for just a moment, after the wound is healed. The flesh is pink and new. This will likely be the last time she’s ever this close to Angela.

“They just have,” she responds darkly. Before Angela can read meaning into it, she speaks again. “Give yourself a moment to catch your breath.”

Moira stands and offers a hand to Angela. Angela refuses it and stands on her own. This doesn’t stop Moira from moving in close, caressing the side of Angela’s face with her hand. Her left hand. “I haven’t, you know.”

“Haven’t what?” Angela asks, tense. There was a time where she would blush at such a gesture, lean into it, but those days are long gone.

“Forgotten how to care about people. I simply rarely find those worth it,” comes the answer.

Angela jerks her head away and steps back. Her strength has returned it seems. She lifts a hand, her own left hand, and taps the ring she wears. “Perhaps you would if you weren’t stuck in the past.”

Moira hadn’t realized Angela had married. She’d known, on some level, she was with the younger Amari, but she’s surprised Sombra hasn’t told her with all the snooping she does. The marriage must’ve been well hidden.

Jealousy floods her, all but choking her. In another life, she’s wearing the matching ring.

It doesn’t seem to matter now.

“All about progress but you’ve never really changed, have you?” Angela moves away, headed for the door.

Moira can’t speak. It’s true. She can’t deny it. She yearns for the days when she and Angela were a team, for when she felt truly inspired by the things around her. Now she makes progress for progress alone. Just to say she’s done it.

In Angela’s eyes, she’s a monster. Some pitiful thing that can’t see past it’s own nose and has mutilated itself in hopes of moving forward. She doesn’t see the discoveries Moira has made, she only sees the pain they’ve caused.

“At one point, you would’ve offered me help if I had cornered you like this,” Moira whispers.

Angela turns and meets Moira’s eyes one more time. She looks… sad. Appallingly so. Moira hates it. “At one point, I thought you might listen. I’ve already learned I am not the key to your redemption.”

She sighs and shakes her head. “Goodbye, Moira.”

With that, she steps out the door and looks up. Moira watches as her wings open, catching the sun, sparkling gold. She watches as Mercy is pulled into the sky to join her wife.

It still hurts.

Angela has lost hope in her, knows it in her soul that Moira is a monster. She sees nothing worth saving anymore and Moira finds it… freeing.

She knows there is no key to her redemption.

All that’s left is to become the monster Angela knows her to be.


End file.
